CHAPTER 146: FIRST DATE

–Laura–

Before we even set foot at the Manila International Book Fair—the one in the biggest mall in the country, where bibliophiles come to drown in the smell of paper and ink—we had to make a pit stop. Coffee for Logan. Obviously. Without caffeine, this man might collapse dramatically in the middle of the convention and make it into tomorrow’s headlines.

"Local author faints at book fair, revived only by coffee," I could already imagine the headline.

So, I clutched Logan’s arm like he was my fragile grandma crossing the street. "Come on, Logan, don’t faint on me. I need you alive and functioning."

Logan, with his messy hair and dark circles, gave me a look that screamed: Woman, I tolerate you only because we’ve been friends since childhood.

And then Damien—my ever-jealous, overly dramatic husband—latched onto Logan’s other arm. Now the scene looked like two caregivers escorting a grumpy patient to the ER.

Logan groaned. "Stop it. Both of you." He hissed like a cat that had been sprayed with water. "Stop playing on me. I can walk on my own."

I widened my eyes in mock innocence. "Oh, please. We’re just worried. But if you faint, you know, I can always save you with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

I winked dramatically. Logan’s face twisted in horror while Damien glared at me with the subtlety of a thunderstorm. I burst out laughing so hard I had to clutch my belly. Damn. With these babies in me, seven months from now, laughter like that might just make them somersault.

Logan groaned louder and backed away from us like we were contagious. Three whole steps. Then he waved his hand as if shooing off a pair of annoying pigeons.

"What now?" Damien asked, extending his hand toward Logan with fake politeness.

Logan cringed and shook his head like he’d just smelled rotten durian. "The two of you are giving me headaches."

"Fine," Damien muttered with a grin, snatching my hand instead and proudly tucking it over his arm as we strode inside the convention hall like royalty.

Now, the Manila International Book Fair is basically a black hole for money. Shelves and booths everywhere, thousands of books screaming buy me, adopt me, don’t leave me behind. And of course, I already had a plan: baby books, motherhood guides, and—okay fine—a few sexy romance novels. You know, research. For purely academic reasons. Definitely not to test reenactments with my husband later.

I snickered at my own thought, earning a suspicious side-eye from Damien.

Hours passed like minutes. Our arms got heavier with every stall. Eventually, Damien caved and bought a scooter luggage—you know, the kind you can sit on and drive around. Naturally, Logan and I claimed it first. We zipped through the aisles like kids, laughing, while Damien trudged behind us carrying paper bags like a poor pack mule.

"I want that!" I squealed, pointing at a gorgeous set of bookends shaped like little castles. Perfect for my sister’s shelves. Though knowing her, she’d probably hire someone to custom-make diamond-studded ones. Still, I was buying them. Why? Because my husband’s money exists for this very purpose.

"Buy me that," Logan chimed in, pointing at a glass case filled with ridiculously overpriced anime action figures. His tone was dead serious, like he was a toddler demanding candy.

Damien stopped walking, exhaled deeply, and looked skyward for patience.

Logan smirked. "You have to practice, Damien. The twins will soon pop out and start asking for toys just like these adorable action figures."

"No." Damien’s voice was flat. "As your father, I can’t spoil you with that kind of stuff."

He sounded exactly like a strict Filipino dad, scolding his rebellious eldest son. I nearly doubled over laughing again.

Logan gasped dramatically. "Don’t you love me?" He even pouted, looking like a tragic telenovela character. On a grown man like him, it was the cringiest thing ever. I laughed so hard I almost rolled off the scooter luggage.

Before the argument could escalate, I tugged Damien’s sleeve. "By the way, I’m craving that Japanese restaurant near school. Can we go there after?"

Logan shook his head. "There are branches near here, Laura. Why drag us across the city?"

I pouted with all my might. "But I want that one. The original. You know, the place Damon and Livana had their first date. It’s still there."

Damien’s grin was smug, almost mischievous. "Yeah, sure. I’ll call the chef."

Logan tilted his head. "Wait. What?"

Damien chuckled. "Damon bought that restaurant. And the whole commercial building near it. That’s why it’s still standing after all these years."

My jaw dropped. Damon, the sentimental mafia lord. Who would’ve thought? I suddenly pictured him and Livana sitting there, years ago, eating sushi while plotting their empire. And now he owns the whole block? Classic Damon move.

"See?" I grinned, eyes sparkling. "We’re basically stalking their love story whenever we eat there. But honestly? Their food is divine, and I’m craving it."

Damien pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "Okay. Anything you want, baby."

Logan cringed so hard, I swear I heard his spine crack. "You’re spoiling your wife. Driving over an hour just to satisfy her cravings—and yet you can’t even buy me that action figure?"

"Fine!" Damien snapped, glaring at Logan like a frustrated parent. "How much is it?"

Logan smirked like he’d just won the lottery.

"Five thousand pesos," the vendor chirped.

Damien’s eyes nearly bulged out. "Five thousand? For that plastic toy?"

"He’s cheap," Logan muttered, smug as ever. I nodded in agreement, mostly to stir Damien up.

Still, Damien bought it. Because at the end of the day, he’s the kind of man who complains loudly but still spoils the people he loves.

"That’s your Christmas present," Damien declared firmly as he handed the bag to Logan. "Don’t expect anything else this December."

Logan held the figure to his chest like a baby, while I snorted. The whole scene looked exactly like a classic Filipino family drama: the spoiled child getting his toy, the strict-but-soft dad caving in, and me—the giggling mom—watching my two boys bicker.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade this ridiculousness for anything.

–Damon–

Surprises are a complicated thing. I like them because they mean I still remember the small things—the exact tilt of a smile, the flavor she prefers, the way her fingers curl when she wants to hide a laugh. But surprises are dangerous too; they reveal how much you keep in the dark and how easily someone else can step into that shadow and touch what is yours.

I did not tell Livana about tonight. Not a whisper. Not a breadcrumb. The restaurant where we had our first date is a quiet place tucked between an old street and a newly planted row of trees—unremarkable to anyone who didn’t know to look. It’s mine now, but when I first walked in years ago it belonged to two hands that held the kitchen together and a single wooden table that had seen too many lonely dinners. I remembered that table by the chipped corner and the faint burn mark shaped like a crescent. I remembered her laughter echoing against those walls like coins in a jar. I remembered thinking, then and there, that I would carve a life that circled back to this table, no matter what it took.

So we arrived and I had arranged it all: a corner away from the door, the old lanterns hung just so, a small fountain out front with koi—because she once told me in a rush of ideas and soft jokes that a fountain with fish would be "perfect" for dreams. The koi glide now where the city hums, and I had the classical music set low, the kind that soothed the edges off nights that came too sharp.

I did not expect to find them—Laura and Damien—already laughing by the manager’s desk. I had reserved the place, reserved the table as if I were reserving a piece of time for only us, and yet here they were, as careless as sunlight, threading themselves into the moment I had kept for her. A small, ugly spike of something hot and sour tasted in my mouth. Jealousy. It surprised me how immediate and animal it felt: claws, low breath, the dangerous desire to rearrange everyone’s positions so that she was always within my reach.

"Damon!" Laura’s voice, playful as thrown confetti. "Perfect. You reserved the whole resto?"

My hand tightened on the menu until the paper creased. "Why are you here?" I asked, careful, a shade colder than I intended.

"Man," Damien said, like everything was a joke. "She’s craving the food."

I watched Livana’s face, the soft curve of her cheek where the light found a place. She turned to me and asked, like she always did when curiosity wanted to be polite, "Where are we?"

"To the place where we had our first date," I said simply and let my arms fold around her from behind. Her body fit into the hollow I’ve kept reserved for her for years; it was a small victory and a quiet confession. She leaned back against me, and for a second the world made sense because she exhaled the same way she always has—slow and small, like a secret being returned.

"Feed them first," she said before I could think, always thinking of others even when she stood in the center of my plan. Her insistence was a soft blade that I loved and resented in equal measure. She prioritized Laura and Logan before she remembered that tonight was for us. I should have been irritated, possessive, furious that strangers or friends or anyone other than me could share this table with her, but the heat in my chest softened when I saw the way she fussed over the pair like a lighthouse keeping watch.

I looked at the manager, nodded, and they set another table with the same careful hands that set a stage. The waiter moved with practiced silence. The ramen arrived in generous bowls, steam rising in wisps that smelled of soy, ginger, and something that hummed with memory. There are smells that belong to a person; tonight, the broth tasted like the first time she smiled at me across a table I had no right to occupy in my own life.

She is blind and the world is a map she reads with fingers and sound and the weight of people. Sometimes I wonder if that is what made me love her so easily—she does not take the world at face value; neither do I. We are both mapmakers of a sort. But because she cannot see, I am greedy with the things I can give, the pieces of the world I can shape for her. I installed a fountain she once mentioned. I painted the walls the color she likes. I kept the old lantern because it catches light in the way she always admired. These are not grand gestures; they are small annexes of control, acts of devotion disguised as permanence.

"Eat first." I told her when the ramen had cooled enough. My voice was not a command but a promise. I let her know I would not allow rush tonight. I picked up the chopsticks and placed a small, perfect bite between them. I dabbed a smear of wasabi, tempering it in the dipping sauce. My hands moved slow, reverent. I held a napkin beneath her chin and guided the food to her mouth.

She opened obediently, like a secret door. She hummed—the sound was a bell toll in my chest—and I smiled, feeling the old teenage thrill like a spark that might set something vast on fire. "This is one of your favorites," I said.

"It’s better this time." She answered, chewing, the words simple and true. The contentment in that quiet sentence anchored me. My heart moved against my ribs as if to escape and join the koi in the fountain. I had fought to be better than the men who had made noise and left. I had made myself patient and cruel and soft and cunning—everything necessary to build a life that could keep her safe and make her laugh. Tonight, the fight quieted because she was here, laughing at Laura’s exaggerated complaint, ruffling Logan’s hair like he was a child again.

I tell myself often that possessiveness is a kind of love that knows its own darkness. I do not deny that a shadow sits in my chest and waits, ready to pounce should anyone cross the line I have drawn around her. But there is gentleness in how I cross that line as well. I am obsessive, yes; I remember the color of the napkins the first time she touched mine, the exact cadence of her "thank you" when the waiter was rude years ago. My obsession is a ledger of small attentions, an accounting of every time I steadied her, of every time I carried her through a night she could not navigate alone.

When she leans into me, when her fingers find the seam of my jacket, I am both the man who would guard the gate and the one who would give her the world on a tray. I want to cloak her in a life where there are no surprises that hurt, only the ones that nudge her toward happiness. I want to be the man who remembers her favorite ramens, who buys back the places that mean something to her, who installs koi in a fountain because once, over a nervous dinner, she suggested it like it was a whim and I took it like a vow.

"Do you remember?" I ask, though I know she does not need the reminder. "The night we sat here and you told me about wanting a koi pond."

"Yes," she says, soft. "You promised."

"I promised," I repeat. And promises are not casual things for me. They are the chain links that hold us together. I tighten mine around her life with care. Obsession is the hammer I use to shape our world; romance is the silk I wrap it in.

She leans her head back against me and sighs—small, satisfied. The music lilts, a note folding into another like hands finding each other in the dark. I let myself believe, without fear or calculation, that this is enough: a table, a fountain, a bowl of ramen, and the steady exhale of the woman who owns my breath.

For all my darkness and all my schemes, there are nights like this that make an empire of me feel like a child again—awestruck, hopeful, and absolutely, helplessly in love.